"I knew they would try something like this," Macnaghten muttered to Byrne. "I was sure they would accuse us of taking the child."

Major Byrne gave a short honk, only partially disguised as a cough. "Do you suppose, William," he said behind his hand, "that the old man is doing this deliberately, to delay the treaty signing? He knows the pa.s.ses will freeze soon. Is he trying to make us fail in our campaign?"

Macnaghten's foot, not quite hidden beneath his chair, began to twitch. "How, if I may ask, Faqeer Sahib," he inquired courteously, "have you come to believe the child was brought here?"

The Faqeer bent conspiratorially forward. "Ah," he replied, beaming, "this is just the place to have brought him! Whoever stole the child would have asked himself two questions. Question one is: which of the two camps is a safer hiding place for the little hostage? The answer is obvious. This is the safer camp, for here people would be less likely to recognize the child. Furthermore," he added, waving a hand toward the red wall, "what better hiding place could there be within this camp than the Governor-General's own compound?"

Macnaghten's fingers tightened on the arms of his chair.

"Question two," the Faqeer went on serenely, "is: what would happen if the child were discovered?" He lifted his shoulders, his palms raised. "Clearly, if the child were found in this camp, he, the real real child thief, would not be blamed. No, indeed. If the baby were found in this camp, his disappearance would be blamed on the Supreme Government of India, the British Government!" child thief, would not be blamed. No, indeed. If the baby were found in this camp, his disappearance would be blamed on the Supreme Government of India, the British Government!"

Putting back his head, he smiled, his eyes closed, signaling perfect happiness. "And so, we come at midnight to catch this child thief. After that, there will be nothing, no, nothing at all, to prevent our immediately signing the treaty."

His speech delivered, he opened his eyes and sat back in his chair as the political secretary, smiling at last, fumbled for the appropriate compliments.

After many politenesses, Faqeer Azizuddin departed down the avenue on his elephant, surrounded by his escort. Once out of sight of Macnaghten's tent, however, he called a halt and signaled to his mounted escort until one of them, an ox of a man from Mianwali, detached himself from the group and rode up.

The Faqeer leaned from his howdah. "You are to take a message, Mirza," he instructed, "to a man called Shafiuddin. I am told his tent is in that direction." He pointed to the end of the avenue and the British horse lines. The man nodded. "The message is this," the Faqeer continued, "'There is to be a rice test in the red compound tonight, at midnight.' You must say this message comes from me. Do you understand, Mirza?"

The man nodded again, kicked his horse, and rode away.

THEY had found a thorn bush half a mile from camp and dismounted behind it. While Mariana watched, Fitzgerald took off his coat and spread it on the ground. "Mariana," he said as she sat down, impatient to hear why he had arranged this daring rendezvous. "There is something I must say to you."

She felt herself fiushing. He was about to ask her to wait for him in Calcutta. "And I have something to tell you, too," she offered conspiratorially, imagining his response when she told him the Maharajah's baby hostage was at that very moment in her tent.

It was only after he sat beside her that she saw the expression on his face. "What is it?" she breathed, as an unpleasant feeling formed in her stomach.

The square, freckled hands that had once gripped her shoulders lay on his knees. He made no move to touch her. "I cannot see you again, Mariana."

"But Harry," she stammered, "we-"

He shook his head and finally offered her his clear green gaze. "I have thought about it ever since I walked you home from dinner. After we arrive at Lah.o.r.e, Lord Auckland will sign the treaty. I will leave immediately afterward. If I am not killed fighting in Afghanistan, I will be sent to an army post somewhere in Bengal. I doubt we will meet again."

"But why?" She bent toward him, her heart aching, willing him to look at her, to fight for them both, to ask her to marry him. "I can wait for you in Calcutta. You can send for me after you return. Why Why should we not meet again?" should we not meet again?"

He shifted his body, moving away from her. "Please, Mariana, this is so difficult." He sighed. "I will never get permission to marry you, after the horrible things people have said. And if I did, I could never make you happy. You must find someone else."

"Harry, I can't bear this. You did nothing wrong. I would do anything-"

"And you will find someone, Mariana." Before she could touch him, he stood. "You will find yourself a nice husband before your year is over." He gave her his crooked smile. "It doesn't have to be Marks, you know."

SHADING her eyes from the setting sun, Mariana looked from face to face among the group seated in front of Miss Emily's tent.

Why must she be civil to Lieutenant Marks, when she wanted so desperately to be alone? How could she plan her campaign to win Fitzgerald back if she must attend to this simpering fool?

"I quite agree, Lieutenant Marks," Miss Emily was saying. "One must never forget the chasm that lies between our two races."

Miss f.a.n.n.y reached for her winegla.s.s. "But why should an Englishwoman ever ever spend more than a few moments with a native? The only ones we see, after all, are the servants." spend more than a few moments with a native? The only ones we see, after all, are the servants."

"But Miss f.a.n.n.y," Mariana offered, scarcely covering her impatience, "surely you have met the wives of Maharajahs. Did you not like them?" She kept her gaze on Miss f.a.n.n.y, aware that Marks was trying to catch her eye.

Miss Emily opened her fan with a snap. "f.a.n.n.y and I," she countered, "have seen a dozen Maharanis, and have found them hopelessly ignorant. Of course they are shut away all the time, poor creatures, with no one to talk to, but still, I cannot imagine spending more than a few moments together with such people."

"I agree entirely," purred Lieutenant Marks from his folding chair. A recent haircut made his ears stand out even more than usual. "In my opinion an Englishwoman should not show interest in any any native, not even a native queen." native, not even a native queen."

"But if we take no interest in them," Mariana asked tightly, "how will we learn anything about India anything about India?"

Miss f.a.n.n.y made a small disapproving sound.

Marks's face creased into a lofty smile. "Ah, but Miss Givens, one cannot take an interest in the natives without becoming entangled in their affairs. It is uncanny," he added, nodding to Miss Emily. "Each time someone I know has shown the slightest concern for a native, the native in question has instantly overstepped the bounds of propriety and become unpleasantly familiar, even intimate." He fiuttered a damp-looking hand. "One feels quite disgusted."

"And do you know of many many such stories?" such stories?"

Loathing had crept into Mariana's voice. Miss Emily glared across at her and closed her fan with another snap. "Of course, Lieutenant," she interposed, "no one in his right mind would-"

"Look!"

Stooped with apparent pain, Mr. Macnaghten approached from the direction of the dining tent, one hand pressed to his midriff. His face was ghastly.

"Lieutenant," breathed Miss Emily.

Marks sprang to his feet, took the secretary's arm, and guided him to a chair.

"My dear Mr. Macnaghten," said Miss Emily, leaning from her seat, a hand outstretched, "may I call Dr. Drummond?"

Macnaghten took a ragged breath. "No, thank you very much, Miss Emily. It is only dyspepsia. I shall be perfectly well by the evening. Meeting with Faqeer Azizuddin often has this effect on me."

Lieutenant Marks bowed to the Eden sisters, then to Macnaghten. "I beg your pardon for a hasty departure, but I must return to my men." He bowed to Mariana. "May I see you to your tent, Miss Givens?"

"No, thank you very much, Lieutenant," she replied stiffiy. "I shall stay here for now."

AN hour later, not wishing to argue with her teacher, she spoke firmly. "I have asked you to see me at this unusual time, Munshi Sahib, because I have decided not to take Saboor to Lah.o.r.e tonight."

Her teacher stood before her, the sunlight casting his shadow past the chair where she sat. In her lap, the baby fiapped his arms as if trying to fiy.

"I see no reason," Mariana continued, "why Saboor cannot remain with me until we reach Lah.o.r.e. After all, we will be there tomorrow. Once the camp is settled, I can return him easily to his family, since they live in the walled city." She nodded decisively to indicate that the subject was closed. How could she give Saboor up today, of all days, when everything was going so wretchedly?

But her munshi did not let the subject drop. "Yesterday afternoon, Bibi," he said evenly, "you seemed delighted to learn that Yar Mohammad had arranged for you to take Saboor to his grandfather tonight. As I remember, you were very much afraid of his being discovered in your tent."

"I may have been frightened then," she countered firmly, while Saboor bounced up and down on her knees, "but I now see that I cannot travel all that distance alone at night without an escort."

Saboor clambered down from her lap, smartly dressed in a new regimental uniform of white pajamas and a tiny red coat with cross-belts. He tottered on his feet, smiling broadly at the munshi, then sat down on the fioor with a thump.

"And how can I take instructions from Yar Mohammad?" Mariana added. "I am an Englishwoman. He is a native groom He is a native groom."

"A native groom," her teacher reminded her gently, "who is willing to risk his life to escort you and Saboor to safety."

"Besides, Munshi Sahib," she said, a little too loudly, as Saboor got up and hurried unsteadily toward Dittoo, "no one will recognize Saboor now that Dittoo's friend has made him new clothes."

The munshi did not reply.

It was was silly and dangerous to go all the way to Lah.o.r.e with only Yar Mohammad to guard her. Hunching her shoulders stubbornly, she looked at the rug, wishing her teacher would say something. silly and dangerous to go all the way to Lah.o.r.e with only Yar Mohammad to guard her. Hunching her shoulders stubbornly, she looked at the rug, wishing her teacher would say something.

At last, as the silence deepened, she told him the truth. "Munshi Sahib, I do not want to give him back."

Her teacher's face became grave. Ignoring the tears in her eyes, he offered her his reply. "It is one thing, Bibi, to rescue a little child from harm. It is something else to keep that child from his family, knowing that they love him and are longing to see him." It was the sternest statement she had heard him make.

"If you will permit me, Bibi, I will tell you a story." Without waiting for her consent, he clasped his hands behind his back, and began. "A man," he began in a singsong, his eyes fixed on the tent wall, "dreamed all his life of finding the Path to Paradise. Driven by his dream, he asked every person he met where the path lay.

"One day he met a wise man who pointed to an ordinary gate leading to an ordinary road. 'That,' the wise man told him, 'is the path you seek.'"

Mariana sniffed and wiped her eyes. How could she listen to fairy tales when all she wanted was to be left alone to feel her losses and her sadness?

"Following the path," the munshi went on, "the man came to a well. He pulled on its rope hoping for water to drink, but when the bucket came up, he saw to his astonishment that it held not water but jewels-diamonds and rubies, emeralds and pearls. Shaking his head, he lowered the bucket back into the well. 'What a foolish place to hide a treasure,' he said."

With a piercing shriek Saboor danced across the fioor toward Mariana, who swept him up and kissed the top of his head. "Quiet, dearest," she murmured.

"As the man walked on," the munshi continued, "he saw a large, silken umbrella with a golden handle and golden fringes lying beside the path.

"'This umbrella,' he said as he pa.s.sed by, 'must belong to the same fool who has hidden his jewels in the well, for there could only be one man in this world foolish enough to leave his treasure in plain sight.'

"After a time, the path began to climb up the side of a mountain, winding its way to the top with many sharp turns-"

A fiy banged obstinately into the tent pole. "Munshi Sahib," Mariana interrupted, forcing a smile, "you seem a little tired. Why do we not hear the rest of your lovely story another time?"

"No indeed, Bibi."

Her munshi had changed in the past few days. Why was he giving her orders: to pray, to return Saboor? Why was he suddenly so fond of the sound of his own voice?

"The path was steep, and slippery at the turns," he said, "but the man was determined to follow it. He climbed all afternoon until he arrived, exhausted, at a wide ledge. There, on a great rock, sat a giant. The giant wept, his head in his hands.

"'What ails you?' asked the man.

"'All my life,' wept the giant, 'I have searched for the Path to Paradise. Finding it gave me joy; but alas, as I traveled, I saw a well full of jewels. Giving in to temptation, I put a small ruby into my pocket.'"

A small ruby-her arms around Saboor, Mariana felt a stab of remorse.

The munshi rocked a little on his feet as he went on. "'As I climbed this mountain,' the giant continued, 'the ruby began to grow heavy. It grew heavier and heavier until now, as strong as I am, I am too weary to continue, and I can never reach Paradise.'

"Leaving the giant behind," he continued, "the man climbed on until, after turning a steep corner, he was met by a powerful blast of wind. Terrified of falling, he clung to the side of the mountain until the wind died as suddenly as it had sprung up.

"When the wind died, the man noticed a small person sitting alone beside the path. Like the giant, he, too, was weeping."

Mariana eased Saboor to the fioor, bracing herself for another ill.u.s.tration of her faults.

"'As I traveled along this path,' said the small man, 'I saw a beautiful umbrella lying on the ground. I borrowed it, only to shade my head, and to make others believe I was a prince, since the umbrella symbolizes royalty. I meant no harm.'"

Make others believe I was a prince. If only she could take back those thoughtless words about Yar Mohammad....

"'But a wind came up and blew the umbrella away. In my struggle to save it, I exhausted myself. I am now too weak to go any farther, and I will never see Paradise.' Sobbing, the small person buried his face in his hands."

The munshi smiled. "Leaving the small person weeping behind him, the man climbed until he could climb no more. His eyes misted over with weariness, he could not see what lay ahead. Abandoning his quest, he crawled with his last strength to the edge of the path, and looked down. Spread below him was a green and glorious valley with sparkling brooks and gardens of fruit trees. Rising from the valley, a breeze carried with it the faintest hint of jasmine and roses. It was the Garden of Paradise."

His story was finished, but her teacher went on smiling, his eyes on Mariana.

Her father would agree. "Return the child," he would say firmly, after closing his study door. "It is the only honorable thing to do."

She sighed. "All right, Munshi Sahib," she said quietly, "I will take Saboor to Lah.o.r.e tonight."

I told them I have sold Baba to Sirosh the tailor," Dittoo replied to Mariana's question, as he handed her the sleeping baby two hours after dinner. told them I have sold Baba to Sirosh the tailor," Dittoo replied to Mariana's question, as he handed her the sleeping baby two hours after dinner.

"Sold him? To a tailor tailor?" She still wore her rose dinner gown and shawls, although it was long past her bedtime. Her breath was visible in the tent.

Dittoo nodded his head decisively. "Yes, Memsahib. My friends think I have sold him to Sirosh for eight annas annas. They were only surprised I had not waited until Baba was fatter. They think I have made a bad bargain."

When Dittoo had departed, chuckling, she tucked Saboor into her quilts and sat down beside him, still wrapped in her shawls.

It would not be long before Yar Mohammad came to take them away.

The oil lamp threw shadows on the tent wall. She stroked Saboor's sleeping face. "I wish you and I were in Suss.e.x, my love. It's nearly Christmas, you know. What a lovely time we would have-you in a coat with a little fur collar, with dozens of jam tarts all to yourself, and no one to sell you as if you were a Christmas turkey!"

But it was not to be. Nothing she desperately wanted was to be. Saboor was to leave her. Fitzgerald was already gone, Fitzgerald who had kissed her only twice, lovely, hasty, stolen kisses. Those kisses were all she would have when she returned, childless and husbandless, to England. But she had cried enough. She lay down beside Saboor, pulled up the quilts, and closed her eyes.

"MEMSAHIB, Memsahib, it is midnight." The resonant whisper roused her from heavy sleep. "We must be quick."

Shivering, she groped through the darkness to the doorway and pushed the hanging aside. A palanquin with woven-cane side panels stood before her in the starlight. Around it waited a dozen men, their breath coming in white clouds. Behind her, the baby sighed softly in his sleep.

Yar Mohammad appeared beside her. "These men," he said quietly, "will carry you through the back entrance and onto the road to Lah.o.r.e. After three miles, you will change to another palki. The second one will be from the house of Shaikh Waliullah, the baba's grandfather. Samjay Samjay Memsahib, do you understand?" Memsahib, do you understand?"

She nodded, her heart quickening. A groom who is willing to risk his life A groom who is willing to risk his life ... Was she, too, risking her life to take Saboor to safety? It was too late, now, to ask that question. ... Was she, too, risking her life to take Saboor to safety? It was too late, now, to ask that question.

"I will not carry the palki, but I will be with you." Yar Mohammad's urgent whisper followed her as she reached for Saboor in the darkness. "Hurry, Memsahib, hurry!"

SOMEONE was talking loudly on the avenue as Mariana pulled her skirts up into the strange palki and held up her arms for Saboor. Distant torchlight fiickered through the holes in the red canvas wall. The voice sounded like Major Byrne's, but why would the major be giving orders out there in the middle of the night? She tucked Saboor beside her, slid the palanquin's side panels closed, and laid her head on a thin pillow that smelled of hair oil. The activities of the camp no longer concerned her. What mattered was that she had been unable to find her bonnet in the dark. What would Shaikh Waliullah think of her, she wondered, arriving at his house without a bonnet?

The palanquin started off jerkily. Voices, pained and breathless, came from outside.

"I said the left foot first, Javed."

"Lift your pole higher, Saleem."

She opened her eyes. The men standing by the palki had not been wearing dhotis. The wrapped dhoti of the Hindu palanquin bearer exposed a man's bare legs as he moved. These men had not worn dhotis but shalwars shalwars, the gathered, full-length trousers of the Muslim. A hand on Saboor's sleeping body, she reached for a handhold as the palki lurched sideways. Whoever these men were, it was plain that none of them had carried a palanquin before. Four would carry, eight would trot alongside, awaiting their turns. How were they ever to travel three long miles like this?

They had stopped moving. Someone spoke nervously. "Band hai. It's closed."